


Tessellate

by greenfairy13



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referencend Violence, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-03 17:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 4,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17288150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenfairy13/pseuds/greenfairy13
Summary: I decided to move my Tumblr Drabbles over here before I never find them again. The title is taken from a song by alt-J.





	1. Farewell, Old Friend

Jim takes a sip from his whiskey. His hand trembles - just a bit. Yet enough for the golden liquid to rise up. He doesn’t spill his drink, just almost.

Oswald smiles maniacally. He looks almost ethereal, his pale skin illuminated by the fireplace behind him. Who knew the angel of death was a penguin?

Jim allows himself to appreciate the other man’s beauty. There’s no use denying now that he was always drawn to him. Jim has finally overstepped all boundaries. This time, the King of Gotham won’t forgive. Jim doesn’t expect him to. Hopes he doesn’t, even.

The detective leans back, savors the exquisite drink and the burning sensation at the back of his throat. He doesn’t talk. There’s no use and he is not a man to beg for his life or putting on a pathetic show.

So he simply raises his glass. “I’m glad it’s you at the end, old friend,” Jim says and Oswald’s smile splits further. It’s so bright, one could almost miss the sadness in his blue eyes.


	2. Bad Day

“I don’t see how all your morality has brought you any good,” Oswald smirks in amusement. “You have to admit, a compromise now and then and our beloved city wouldn’t be a wreck. He pauses, the smile creeping up further.

"I have to admit, though, I like the opportunities your doing has granted me. But as for you, I’m not quite sure. You seem to keep on giving and never receiving.” The criminal takes a swig from his silver hipflask, giving James a scrutinizing once over.

They are both exhausted, covered in blood and sweat and so goddamn tired. Still, the kingpin’s mood couldn’t be better. He can see it in his dear police man’s eyes: the change, the reaching of a breaking point. Maybe it really just takes one bad day - and the right bad day, that is.

The detective feels like a mouse in front of a cat intent on playing. There’s no good reason for the criminal not to snuff his lights out right now. Or all the other times before. It’s ludicrous that he’s still alive. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe death isn’t the worst after all. He stares at the corpse on the floor, a living, breathing person only moments before and then at Oswald.

And then he can’t help laughing. Because what else can you do if you can’t keep on screaming?


	3. In The Middle

Jim storms into his office. He’s all the intimidating detective, the hero on his quest to save the virgin and slaughter the dragon. He doesn’t ask for help, he demands it - and the man is certain to receive it.

Detective Gordon doesn’t show any respect. While all of Gotham is quivering at his feet, fearing the wrath of the Penguin, this man just talks to Oswald Cobblepot as if he was still an insignificant umbrella boy.

The Penguin hides a bemused smirk while observing his favorite policeman rant and rage over the corruption and bestiality that is Gotham. He works himself up to the sort of spectacular tantrum people say the mobster would be throwing at any given opportunity.

Oswald finally tunes out when the stubborn man starts repeating his arguments for the third time. At one point, Jim stops talking and the kingpin is being ripped from his rather soothing musings on fabric, hand-made blades and new hairstyles. The background noise the detective had been making is akin to the roar of the sea on a hot summer’s day: you only miss it when it’s gone.

The gangster looks up and snarls. “Are you quite done, yet?” he demands to know, his tone the one of the tsar he is. Jim has the decency to be startled but doesn’t reply.

“Zsasz will see you out,” he finally says and for once, he must have done something right cause James doesn’t protest, but simply storms out, cheeks red from anger and fists curled.

“I believe you should set an example,” Victor declares with determination once James is gone. “The other mob bosses already think you’re being weak.” The assassin pats his rifle while smiling encouragingly at his boss.

Victor isn’t proposing that suggestion for the first time. In fact, he’s saying so every time Jim leaves Oswald’s office. Like every time, the gangster declines.

“Why?” the killer would always ask and Oswald would never answer.

James Gordon made him. He made him the king of Gotham and dragged him down into the mud all over again. And Oswald Cobblepot made James Gordon, turned him into the reckless, broken, desperate shadow of a hero he is today.

Yet, James is still a good man, and Oswald is still a devious man. But they are both on the same path. One from the light into darkness, and one from darkness into light. And Oswald Cobblepot still waits for him to meet at dawn.


	4. Closure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About Victor

The edge cuts effortlessly through his skin. It was so flawless, this skin, his skin, so long ago - a lifetime ago.

 

Blood trickles down his arm, leaving an unsteady pattern as it searches its way through the scars marring his skin.

 

One scar for one life. It is a fair deal. This skin was exquisite.

 

He draws a pattern on his body, counting, counting, counting. Each wound is connected, connected to a body, to a face, to a being. They are all connected to a ghost.

 

Ghosts are unfinished business, they say. So Victor gives them a mark - for closure.


	5. Used To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied past non-con.

It’s different from what Oswald is being used to. He’s used to being used. Would have never thought that it could be different. There’s no discomfort, no adding to the constant pain he’s in for once. Just pleasure.

The flush highlights his chest, like a big red warning sign. All these freckles, all these scars he’s ashamed of are becoming visible at once, practically sparkling. Closing his eyes, he lets his head loll back against silken pillows.

He’s used to hands gripping him roughly and to his hair being pulled cruelly. He’s used to being debased, to being forced down on his knees. Nobody would ever care for his shattered leg or his broken heart. He’s used to being thrown away.  

He didn’t owe the world. It owed him. Anything and everything. So he kept taking.

Tonight, he was given. Soft lips nip at a collarbone, delicate fingers caress battered flesh. Words meaning nothing and everything are being whispered into his ear. A kiss so tender tears prick at his eyes is being pressed to his lips.

He remembers a rough mouth forcing itself on him and his legs being pushed cruelly apart. Tears would spill then, too.

Bright blue eyes question him without words. Ask him what he wants, what hands and mouth and legs are allowed to do. He’s frozen, terrified the agony would return. Instead, he’s being released, given time to adjust.

When he doesn’t reply, strong arms embrace him, secure him until his breathing is even again. No accusations are being made as he’s lying there, dreading he’ll be forced onto his stomach again.

It  _never_  happens. He fears he’s going to be left. He isn’t. He’s just being held, like a child, until the tears subside.

“What were their names?” Jim asks and Oswald answers, sometimes. And sometimes, the names would show up on the news the other day.


	6. Slaughter A Dragon

James Gordon came to Gotham to slaughter a dragon and save a maiden. Turns out, the dragon was the maiden.

He’s moving atop one of Gotham’s most deadly creatures. The detective isn’t a fool, knows that the lithe being beneath him is literally shaped from blood, hatred, and malice.

It’s easy to forget when a crimson flush highlights alabaster skin, promoting each and every freckle. He’s chasing them with his tongue, connecting the dots in random lines, retracing the twisted, contorted path that led him here.

The monster in his bed looks fragile, brittle, even - that look is deceiving. Oswald has taken down an entire city with only his determination and a sword hidden in an umbrella.

It took Jim quite a while to admire that. He does now, though - thoroughly. Especially when Gotham’s devious mind gets lost in his own bliss.

“I love you.”

The detective figures it out at last and the creature beneath him goes rigid. Jim wonders if he managed to hurt to the ethereal being. Turns out, he did.

Yet not like he thinks. He didn’t touch the wrong places or said the wrong words - but the right ones.

Big, pleading eyes are trained intently at him, filled with tears. And a mouth tells a story about love forcibly taken, about it never being shared but claimed without consent.

The hero in him comes to life, his need to save overtaking him. Mouth tightening into a hard line, he vows to slaughter another dragon then.

It took Jim quite a while to finally admit it: he likes that cracking sound of a nose breaking beneath his fist.

His lips curl into a churlish smile while another lip splits. Not stopping here, he goes on. A fist connects with flesh, connects with bone. His smile broadens at the sight of a face turning into pulp.

Handcuffs are then being snapped around broad wrists, rights are being cited like meaningless prayers and a dragon has been slaughtered. The right one, this time.


	7. Copper

At this moment, Oswald can hardly remember how many times they did this. One of them being on their knees, green eyes locking with blue ones, defiant and petulant all the same. The sweet copper hinged scent of blood fills the air.

The Penguin tastes it on the tip of his tongue, salt and iron and something entirely unique that is death and destruction and reconstruction all rolled into one. A gun placed under a strong jawline, teasing and caressing, threatening and promising the things about to come. The whispered nothings a lover might tell another coated in acrimoniousness. Words rolling off of a tongue like a fine wine. This animosity is going on for so long neither of them can differ the act from the truth.

The air sizzles and cracks from tension, a rope so tense it might tear any second and never does. And they both fall back so easily into their roles and snarl and bark and growl and grit their teeth while knowing all the while where the line is. A thin line never to be crossed. A line into two directions with death and destruction on the one side and lust and greed on the other.

 

 


	8. 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dark Penguin x Jim.

“I’ll make you love me,” the Penguin promises with a vile smile. A leather-clad hand comes up, caressing without touching. The travesty of a lover’s touch. 

 

A shiver runs down Jim’s spine that has nothing to do with the temperature. 

 

“That’s impossible,” he wants to say but the words won’t make it past his paralyzed tongue. Looking up into these bright green eyes, he isn’t so sure about that either.  

 

“We’ll see,” the king of crime says mouth curling into a nasty smirk. “Winston said so too,” he adds with a wink, cane tapping merrily against the floor. Jim’s stomach churns in response. 

 

“Who’s Winston?” the detective demands to know, raising his chin defiantly. But he has an idea already. Yet, that can’t be. 

 

The mobster positively snickers. It looks strangely endearing, this combination of childish playfulness and madness lurking behind the innocent veneer. 

 

“Tsk, tsk,” he retorts, waggling his finger sprightly. “You are, of course!” the crime lord exclaims then triumphantly. “My dear detective, you should really read some more. But don’t worry, though. You’ll be very acquainted with Mr. Winston Smith’s story once we are done,” he adds mockingly. 

 

“You can’t,” the detective gasps, appalled. 

 

“True,” he admits, suddenly crestfallen but then his face lights up and it’s the most terrifying thing Jim has ever seen. “But my dear Victor here can!” 

 

The last thing Jim hears before the darkness engulfs him is the click of Oswald’s tongue. 

 

_ “But I already love you!”  _ he screams.  

 

But it’s too late. Maybe it always was. 

  
  



	9. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald deals with Jim's death.

A broken heart is a very real thing, Oswald thinks as a tentative finger hesitantly touches a key. The piano shrieks then, almost morose. But the spell is already broken, the instrument has been woken from its slumber. 

 

The long, pale legs of a spider start running up and down and up and down. From north to south they dance and from west to east. He’s bending the apparatus to his will, forcing it to elicit the sweetest sounds. He’s starting with a merry, simple tune but soon becomes bolder. Picking up speed, he lets his fingers roam freely, presses down with more force when finally knowing what to say. 

 

Hands white like snow fly over keys white like bones. It’s exhausting, playing like that, whipping yourself into a frenzy until you’re shaking from the effort of keeping up the speed. It somehow reminds him of his time in Maroni’s restaurant when cooking a crab. He dropped the living creature into the boiling water, witnessed the pale creature turning red, dancing a final Charleston in this scalding hell of a pot. 

 

His hands should turn red too. 

 

Clenching his hands into tight fists, he slams them down. The piano screams in agony.

 

There’s silence then. 

 

It should be bliss, having a little quiet at last. But Oswald’s chest constricts as he feels the eyes of a hundred people staring up at him, watching him, scrutinizing him. He can hear them mumbling, whispering, calling out to him. Closing his eyes, he wills them to go away.

 

Of course, that’s futile. You can’t rip a voice out of your head. 

 

Oswald is all alone. Nobody’s at the lounge at this time of the day, when it’s not yet morning but the night has already passed and the world is swathed in gray. 

 

Thinking about it, the King of Blood and Bones isn’t sure when Gotham ever shone in color. He remembers summers from his childhood when the sky used to be blue like Jim Gordon’s eyes. Now that remaining glow has faded too. 

 

In the end, it only took a single bullet, right between those eyes and azure turned to dust. 

 

That’s Gotham.

 

Jim wanted to leave. Only a month earlier, he had been at the Lounge, unusually chipper and polite. He had been asking questions, as always. But it should have been the last time, his last case. 

 

Oswald wants to run. The panic rising in his veins, the adrenaline makes him want to get up and start chasing down the roads until he’ll collapse in the snow, feel the cold surrounding and embracing him until it numbs the pain. 

 

He can’t, not with his wreck of a leg. So he lets his fingers run instead until they bleed until they can’t go on any longer. 

 

“Can I take you up on this drink now?” Jim asks from behind and Oswald’s tears start falling, wetting skin and keys made of bone. 

 

He’s gone when he turns around but maybe he’ll be back. 

 

After all, nobody leaves Gotham. 

  
  
  
  
  



	10. The Value of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim x Oswald (established relationship)

Some truths can only be spoken in the dark. In the intermediate world of a bedroom, body covered by sheets, head hidden under pillows, and the mind floating between dream and reality, words spill easily from swollen lips. 

 

These are the fickle truths, the ones that would crumble in the harsh light of day, would burn under the remorseless light of the sun. It is a brittle kind of sincerity, only possible in the twilight, in this border country separating night from day. These words are only genuine for a fleeting moment, already turning into lies when spoken. 

 

Pale moonlight illuminates pale, sweat-slick skin. The body beneath James Gordon is trembling, practically dissipating beneath his calloused hands. A needy moan escapes the lithe creature writhing on layers of silk and cotton. 

 

Oswald is always so greedy for more. 

 

The detective chuckles mirthlessly before pressing another kiss to another scar telling another story. He can’t honestly say the King of the Underworld hasn’t paid for his sins - this beautiful body is destroyed beyond repair. And these scars littering the gorgeous skin only tell a tale of physical injuries, they are merely superficial. The true price he has paid for becoming the Penguin, the King of Gotham, are hidden, invisible to the eye but still known to the detective. 

 

His fingers slide over delicate ribs, counting the brittle bones as they make their way down and the murderer moans with delight. Meaningless words spill from his lips, incoherent prayers for a non-existing deity echo through the room as he surrenders himself willingly to the cop. The tip of his tongue encircles the other man’s cock, teases it until the criminal dissolves into helpless cries for relief. 

 

Who is Jim Gordon to deny Oswald Cobblepot anything? 

 

Steadying the mobster’s hips, he starts sucking earnestly, leaving marks on the prominent bones in the process until he tastes salt on his tongue. He doesn’t stop here, not until he hasn’t savored every last drop and the heavy weight in his mouth becomes as pliant as the rest of the trembling body.

 

They lie entangled under the sheets, Jim content to feel a rapidly beating heart under his palm. The confession comes easily in the dark. 

 

“I love you,” he murmurs and the beat falters. 

 

“What is this love worth?” Oswald whispers in return. 

 

Jim doesn’t answer, doesn’t have an answer. Some people would say he and the gangster are different sides of the same coin but that isn’t true. They are the exact same side of the exact same coin. 

 

They are two men driven by desire, pride, arrogance, and hunger. Jim, who had been raised to be a hero, a man to protect the weak and the poor turned into Gotham’s white knight in his quest to cleanse the city from all evil. 

 

“I always get what I want,” Oswald had told him victoriously the first time he and Jim had gotten together. “But I always pay a price,” he added, barely audible. 

 

But Jim has paid a price too. He sacrificed friends and lovers, the ties connecting him to his family, his freedom and integrity only to wear his badge. 

 

And Oswald? How much did he pay to rise from servant to king and would he have paid the price if he had known how high it would be? It is the childhood that defines us, shapes us. And Oswald, raised in bitter poverty, yet surrounded by a perverted impression of wealth had no other choice but to strive for real power.

 

How could they have become anything else than the men they are?  

 

“Would you give up being the Penguin?” Jim asks in lieu of an answer, waiting for the silence to clench his heart. He already knows, though. Knows how he would answer if Oswald asked him to give up his badge. 

 

They could both do it: deny what they are. But it would only last for a while. Despite all the love, you can’t betray your true nature. Jim knows without a doubt on his mind that he’d die for his gangster in heartbeat. With the same certainty, he knows that he would never live for his gangster. 

 

“Probably nothing,” Jim says at last. “This love is worth nothing.”

 


	11. Salute

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” Oswald sniffs haughtily as his perfectly manicured finger tries wiping a tear away before Jim has a chance to see it. Of course, Jim sees it. He always knows, always sees. 

 

A strong arm grips his shoulder, squeezes it for a second that passes before it even started. But it’s enough and the Penguin shifts his weight, sniffles and allows for his mascara to smudge his pale face. 

 

He doesn’t mind, though. 

 

The Penguin will always hold an umbrella for Jim Gordon.

 

And Jim will always pull him away from the edge of death. 

 

That’s what they do, what they have always been doing. What they’ll always do. 

 

Until one of them can’t do it anymore. 

 

The detective looks ashen. His eyes are hollow and the cyan glow of his eyes has long turned gray. Maybe he’ll buckle soon, Oswald muses. But then his detective surprised him before. 

 

Jim coughs and his whole body shakes. His teeth grind together as his jaw clenches painfully. The gangster looks over, wants to ask if everything is alright but thinks better of it when the cop shakes his head firmly. 

 

Another tear falls to the ground. It doesn’t matter that Jim sees the wetness on his face. Never matters with Jim, the only person in Gotham who won’t hold his weaknesses against him or berate him for being human. 

 

Quite the contrary. It’s the demon lurking under the gentleman’s surface that scares the fine policeman. 

 

Jim sees it only rarely these days, this monster. Oswald prefers it that way. He’s the only one left who remembers the boy a loving mother raised all those years ago. He’s the only one who remembers his mother, too. 

 

“I could use a drink now,” Jim says out of nowhere and Oswald nods. 

 

“Quite right, old friend,” he replies, limping over to the bar. “I should have known you’d wait until it’s only us two left."


	12. The Beat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald and Jim dancing in the rain.

Rain keeps beating down on the once matt black umbrella. The fabric is glistening like obsidian when Oswald raises his bad leg carefully, bending the ruined appendage at the destroyed knee. The movement hurts, forces him to grit his teeth else a sob might escape his bruised body. Not a single bone in his body that hasn’t been broken, not a single limb that hasn’t been shot at. 

Oswald Cobblepot is a being shaped from inconceivable pain. 

And he’s still standing. Will still be standing tomorrow and the day after. 

This pain he’s currently in, this pain he’s always in, is nothing, not even worth mentioning. 

Dropping the umbrella, he stands up on his tiptoe, experimentally whirling around his own axis. He raises his hands above his head, drops his head back as he feels the rain falling on his face, drowning him alive.

He jumps. High, so high. Cause he can’t do anything in life half-heartedly. 

The rise doesn’t hurt, never does. It’s the inevitable crash that sets an entire stream of agony coursing through his nervous system. 

But the ascent is worth it all. It’s worth the fall, always is.

The second jump almost leaves him breathless but this short moment when the wind blows through his hair, this second of complete, utter abandon, of not being disabled, is worth it. 

In another life, he would be dancing - unfettered, free, unburdened. 

In this life, Oswald rules. An entire city waits for him to give an order, to fulfill his every wish.

Oswald has risen from the ground, the flightless bird proved them all wrong, forced them all to their knees and like always he miscalculates. 

The third jump does the charm, elevates him higher than the ones before than anything before and he already feels the impact before hitting the ground.

This time, he won’t get back up. 

“Careful,” an irritated voice grumbles as strong arms wrap around his waist, pulling him to safety. 

James Gordon frowns. Lips pressed into a thin line, he glares at the flushed gangster in his arms. He always looks so irascible these days, even when he’s actually anything but. But Gotham has etched her marks into his face so Oswald doesn’t fault him for that. 

Manic, hysterical laughter escapes the mobster as he leans into the warmth of the solid embrace he’s being given. Jim had been the reason for his downfall so often, it’s ironic he catches him nowadays before hitting the ground. 

The grip around his body tightens as he’s being swayed gently. Jim turns him around, entwines their fingers and moves his other hand to the small of his back. 

“From now on, I’ll catch you when you fall,” he mumbles. Steadying Oswald’s stance, he starts moving them the sound of the rain.    
  



End file.
